Sniper
by OzGeek
Summary: McGee learns what it is to be a sniper. A Gibbs-McGee story written for ceildh for the NFA 2009 Secret Santa. Spoilers for Twilight end season 2 . Set and written between seasons 6 and 7. Four chapters - one every few days.
1. Just a head shot

**_This story was written for Ceildh in the 2009 NFA Secret Santa. Check out her work on this site to see the style I was aiming for. It was written and set between seasons 6 and 7 but I modified it slightly after season 7 aired to make it consistent._ **

* * *

**Chapter 1: Just a head shot**

The wind whipped its icy tongue around Gibbs' body, chilling him to the bone. He would have pulled his coat tighter except that the vile smelling man at his back currently pressing a gun against his ear would probably object.

Gibbs allowed himself a moment of discontent; if only the Navy Captain whose body they had found dumped beside the college football field had been DiNozzo's age, McGee's age or even Ducky's age it would be someone else freezing their butt off right now. Unfortunately, he and the Captain were born within a year of each other so there was no question as to who was going undercover – and whose butt was going to get frozen.

In truth, it wasn't the bitter cold that bothered him so much as the vulnerability. He wanted to be the one lying out there somewhere in the unseen distance, the comforting feeling of a sniper rifle in his hands and the bald head of his captor glinting in his sights. He wanted to be protecting his team, not the other way around. It was not that he didn't trust them to do the job right; it's just that he just wasn't big on delegation. He was the boss, they were his team. It was worse than handing over the car keys and sitting in the passenger seat.

His captor was scoping the rooftop for possible traps unaware of the invisible distant lethal danger. His team would be spread out evenly like three spokes of an enormous mile-diameter wheel covering this pre-arranged position. Very soon, one of them would be taking out his low life companion.

The timing of the final shot had to be just right: too early and they wouldn't have the evidence they needed to take down the entire operation, too late and well, skinny bald guy would pull the trigger attached to the gun currently boring into his skull.

The position of his captor's car had already ruled Ziva out of contention, a fact she was probably swearing over right now. Who would he prefer between DiNozzo and McGee? In days gone by, it would have been an easy choice: apart from the odd ear clip, DiNozzo had the better aim. All that had changed when Kate was shot.

Gibbs remembered that night in Abby's lab in the aftermath of Kate's murder. He was lining up the rifle sights when he suddenly caught the lustful glint in McGee's eyes.

"_It looks sweet the way you hold that, Boss."_

McGee was just the type to romanticize the sniper role and Gibbs had been quick to crush all his fantastical notions of sniper heroism.

"_Sweet? Think Ari looked sweet when he shot Kate?"_

The look on McGee's face told him the jibe had hit home. It might have seemed harsh at the time, especially after what they had all just endured, but it had to be done: short, sharp and to the point. He had to make McGee understand that being a sniper was not an artistic endeavor but a cold hard, technical job.

He had assumed the situation was laid to rest along with Kate so it was with dichotomous mixture of pride and horror that he realized several years later that his jab had not deterred McGee at all. One of his old sniper buddies reported that McGee had been asking around the shooting range for some extra help on his 'long range paintball shots'. Gibbs knew better than that. While McGee was never going to be a true marine grade sniper, he was stoic enough to put in hard yards to become an expert marksman.

It was six more months before Gibbs saw the results of McGee's extra-curricular training. He had taken the team down to the range for a little practice and the change in McGee's demeanor was remarkable. He had the cool calm posture of sniper, the patient, relaxed stance and the careful trigger squeeze with the ball of the finger. Ziva noticed too but said nothing – her prowess with a gun had been honed since childhood and she made no secret of the fact she thought everyone on the team should improve their aim.

Tony, however, was clearly not ready to lose his 'senior agent' status to McGee on any count. Gibbs could see the fire of competition in his eyes. The next day, Gibbs had quietly slipped him the name of another sniper friend who liked to teach. A healthy rivalry would be good for both his male agents.

Another six months and Tony's marksmanship had improved but something told Gibbs that the more impetuous agent was never going to outpace his younger, more patient rival. In the heat of an improvised battle, Tony's superior instincts would far outweigh McGee's but in the slow waiting sniper game, McGee was intrinsically better suited.

Gibbs' musings were interrupted by a rough push on his back urging him forward towards the bin where the stash of false drugs had been laid. Gibbs orientated himself to encourage the man to terminate their journey in a position that gave both his remaining agents a chance at a decent shot. His opponent had his own agenda, however, shifting him in other directions. Once their macabre dance was over, only McGee had a realistic shot.

Two thoughts chased each other around Gibbs' head: "Don't risk it, DiNozzo" and "Don't second guess yourself, McGee". Then a third piped up – "Allow for wind". Even a light breeze at McGee's range could shift the bullet trajectory from its intended target straight into Gibbs' head - and this was _not_ a light breeze. When the wind was like this, fiercely swirling in all directions, there was a point where McGee was just going to have to go on faith.

"Get it," growled the voice at his ear.

Slowly and deliberately, Gibbs leaned forward, his captor's barrel glued to the side of his head the entire journey. He kept his movements fluid: the last thing he wanted to do was make a sudden move and have the gun go off unexpectedly. Besides, smooth motion would be easier for McGee to track.

Peering over the rim of the receptacle, he spied the package. Wrapped in a loose brown paper covering, it resembled a large book: Abby had done a good job of making it look like the original. He reached in with both hands and closed his fingers around it. Then, with a slow graceful movement, he brought it out into the open.

"Yes!" said the jubilant voice in his ear.

The package was all his captor needed and all the evidence NCIS needed. Now it was just a question of who shot first.

Gibb's felt rather than heard the gun at his head cocking.

Then there was an explosion in his ear.

Gibbs recoiled involuntarily at the sound then spun to face his captor. To his satisfaction he found the man lying on the ground with a neat hole positioned almost exactly at this temple. The other side of the head, he knew would not look so discrete. Gibbs straightened and held up a thumb to signal the mission's success to his unseen team.

* * *

_Author note:_

_People in Britain and Australia do indeed 'orientate' themselves, it's only you Americans who 'orient'. Both words are correct but the former is more common over here and the latter, more common in the US. Google it or check out askOxford. My spell checker doesn't even blanch at 'orientate' and it's set to US spelling._


	2. Sweetness and light

**Chapter 2 - Sweetness and light**

McGee knelt on the rooftop, systematically disassembling his sniper rifle and placing each piece meticulously into his rifle case. One by one he slid them into their own personal purpose-built form-molded compartment. Although the procedure was so ingrained in him now that he could literally perform the actions with his eyes shut, he focused every ounce of his concentration on each step. He needed something to fill his mind and stop it from wandering back to the image of the face in his sights and the sound of the howling wind ….

Pausing, he squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, banishing the unwanted memories. Opening them again with a new resolve, he clipped the case shut, picked up his tripod and made his way to the stairwell for the long climb back down to the ground. Tony and Ziva would be along soon to pick him up. He had until then to fully regain his composure.

By the time Tony and Ziva pulled up in the shiny Dodge, McGee was numb. On rubbery legs, he strode to the trunk and threw his rifle case on top of the two already lying in there. His case looked different to the others somehow, as though you could tell which one had tasted blood today.

"Good shot, Probie," Tony enthused as the car pulled away from the curb.

McGee could not summon the words to respond. Even if he could, his mouth was too dry to actually utter them. Just the fresh reminder of his actions set him shaking and on a path somewhere between throwing up and passing out. His mind flashed back to that day in the lab.

_"It looks sweet the way you hold that, Boss."_

_"Sweet? Think Ari looked sweet when he shot Kate?"_

Did Ari look 'sweet'? No. Did he think he himself looked sweet today staring down that barrel at another human being, preparing to end his life? Definitely not. Sick: sure, panicked: unarguably but sweet? Although they hurt at the time, he now recognized Gibbs' words for the warning they were. He wasn't ready for this. Sure he had the training in marksmanship mechanics but the mindset - that was another thing entirely. Did Ari enjoy that shot at Kate? Did he go through all that planning and then have any regrets? Doubtful. McGee recognized the huge gulf between himself and a real sniper.

"Right through the temple," Tony continued gleefully.

"Tony!" McGee snapped.

"What?"

"I just killed someone, OK."

"You did your job, McGee," Ziva clarified.

McGee ground his teeth together and fought the bile rising in his throat. There was no way they could understand how he felt.

"Wish I could have taken that shot," Tony said wistfully as they drove off towards headquarters.

* * *

Thunk.

Thunk, thunk.

Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, twack.

McGee finally glared across at Tony who was in the midst of rolling yet another paper ball to lob at his face. "Stop it."

"I'm just getting some sniper training in," Tony grinned.

"That's enough training," McGee growled.

"Think you can beat me, Probie?" Tony goaded. "I challenge you to a sniper duel at 5000 paces."

McGee shook his head and returned to his report. His hands were still shaking causing the cursor to flit about the screen like a panicked bug. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and squinted to focus on the writing swerving impatiently before his eyes.

Gibbs watched McGee from his desk. The kid looked devastated: pale, sweaty and shaking. All good snipers went through it: the first kill was always the hardest but it never got easy. A field kill in the line of duty was totally different to the premeditated sniper kill. Some young guns, no pun intended, never made it past this point. It was up to him now to find a way to help McGee come to terms with it.

"McGee," he called out.

Desperate eyes looked up at him.

"Abby's lab."

Gibbs saw McGee's despair dissolve into relief: Abby would be a momentary sanctuary for him, allowing him to regroup before the lesson Gibbs had planned.

"On it, Boss."

As the junior agent left, Gibbs picked up the phone to prepare Abby for her part.

* * *

"Timmy", Abby cried smothering him in a hug. "You did good out there today."

"Then why do I feel so bad?"

Abby released him and stared him in the face, "because."

"Thanks, I feel much better, now."

"Well, you tell me: why don't you feel good about what you did?"

McGee took a deep breath. "I … I don't know. I just thought it would be different, you know. I just… well… look can we just drop this? I'm already getting enough reminders from Tony."

"Sure. Consider it dropped. Have a look at this cool re-creation I did of the crime scene." Abby spun to her computer and brought up a series of vector drawings. "See here's Gibbs and the bad guy and over on the other rooftops are you, Tony and Ziva. Now watch as I add the wind speed and direction."

McGee's mouth went dry again.

"Now this is the clever part," Abby enthused. "I calculated your bullet's trajectory from muzzle to temple." A green line appeared on the screen tracing an almost parabolic arc from his marked position to Gibbs'. "One little wind gust and the Boss might have been history!"

McGee squeezed his eyes shut. "Abs, what part of 'drop this' does that picture constitute?"

Abby killed the image. "Well, it's science and that can't be bad." She paused, smiling weakly. "Here," she offered him a Caf Pow. "You look like you could use this."

McGee frowned at the proffered drink then looked down at his shaking hands. "I don't think I really need the extra caffeine, Abs."

Abby shrugged in defeat. "Probably not," she conceded.

"I'm beginning to see why Ziva offered me the vodka," McGee mused.

"Ooooo, Ziva has vodka? Where does she keep it?"

"In her … , " he was cut short by Ducky's call on the video link.

"Ahh, Abigail. Does Timothy happen to be up there with you?"

"You must be getting psychic in your old age Ducky."

"Would you be so kind as to send him down to autopsy, please? I have something he needs to see."

"Be right there, Ducky," McGee said, bending so that the intercom lens caught his face.

As Ducky's face disappeared, McGee straightened and exchanged glances with Abby: this didn't sound good.

"Come on," she said taking his hand. "I'll come with you."


	3. Show time

**Chapter 3 - Showtime**

Abby and McGee arrived at Autopsy to find that it was standing room only: Ducky and Jimmy held center stage, Tony and Ziva were standing against the autopsy drawers and all three examination tables held covered bodies. Sensing they were here to 'watch', Abby and McGee joined Tony and Ziva in front of the drawers.

We've brought you here today, Timothy to understand the nature of being a sniper." Ducky began.

For a fleeting moment, McGee actually entertained the thought that Ducky was going to be concise.

"You know," Ducky started afresh, "the term 'Sniper' was only associated with marksmanship in 1824. It derives from a term used by British soldiers stationed in India in 1770 where a 'sniper' was a sharpshooter skilled enough to shoot the elusive snipe."

"A snipe?" Jimmy questioned. "Like the water bird?"

McGee tried to shake the impression that he and the rest of the team were the audience to a two man stand up show - but failed.

"Very good, Mr. Palmer," Ducky congratulated him. "Specifically wading birds from the genus Gallinago in the Scolopacidae family. Little blighters are notoriously difficult to hunt. Did you know that Colonial Americans used telescopic sights invented by Benjamin Franklin to aid in their snipe-shooting endeavors?"

"Wish I'd been shooting at a bird," McGee grumbled.

Abby hit him on the shoulder. "You don't want to hunt defenseless little birds, do you McGee."

"Ah no, but I mean instead of, well ...". McGee gave up – he wasn't going to win. Besides, the Ducky and Jimmy show wasn't over yet.

"If they are so difficult to hunt, Dr Mallard," said Jimmy, "why do people bother?"

McGee felt himself being set up for the punch line. He just wished Ducky would get on with it.

"For the reason most difficult-to-catch species are hunted," said Ducky cryptically.

"The thrill of the hunt?" suggested Jimmy.

"The taste of the kill, Mr Palmer: Snipes are simply delicious."

McGee sighed as his brain did a 'ka-ching'. He almost applauded but then decided to just make good his escape while Ducky was not looking.

"Come back here, Timothy," called Ducky, his tone reverting to seriousness. "We have yet to begin your little session."

McGee grimaced in embarrassment: he'd been caught sneaking out after the warm up act.

"Body number one," Ducky announced, approaching the first table.

McGee needed no introduction to this body, he had spent too much of his recent lifetime examining that profile through his sights.

Ducky threw off the cover. "Jacob Travers: drug lord to the Navy. The man responsible for more than half a dozen of the bodies that have graced this room: many of them fine Naval officers caught in a web of deceit. A man brought down by a single sniper's bullet."

McGee tried to look away but Tony had grabbed him by the shoulders and was pushing him forward towards the body.

"Look at that, McSniper," he said gleefully, "your first snipe."

"Tony," McGee groaned, squeezing his eyes closed momentarily and trying to deny that the body had only half a head.

Ducky moved on to the second table and Tony steered McGee to follow.

"Body number two," said Ducky, throwing off the second cover.

McGee frowned: it was the body of the victim Gibbs had impersonated.

"Captain David O'Neill, father of two, whole life ahead of him. Caught in the middle of two drug lords through no fault of his own. Killed by one side under the assumption he was working for the other. He did not die in vain, however, for it was only through his death that we were able to finally put an end to this intermittable drug war."

Ducky moved to the third table motioning for Tony to drive McGee over.

"Body number three," said Ducky: "The ghost of Christmas future."

He removed the cover to reveal Gibbs, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. McGee took a step backward but only managed to walk into a wall of Tony. He felt sick to his stomach. If only they knew how close Gibbs came to actually being on that table at his hand. Just one slight miscalculation at that critical moment and that really would be Gibbs' body on the slab – only with half his head blown off.

Cold sweat crept up McGee's spine. Behind him, he felt Tony hands slide from his shoulders to his biceps, transforming from guiding claws to soothing cradles in the process. It occurred to him that, had Tony taken the shot, their positions might well be reversed: this lesson was meant for both of them.

"This is the first of many deaths that your bullet prevented, Timothy" said Ducky.

Gibbs' eyes flew open and McGee almost fainted. He felt Tony's hands tighten their grip reflexively, holding him up as his legs tried to dissolve under him.

Gibbs sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table, furthering the sense of unreality. "Never thanked you for saving my life today, McGee," he said.

McGee swallowed dryly. "That's OK, Boss."

Gibbs gave McGee a knowing nod. Well at least the kind of half-knowing nod where Gibbs knew something and McGee didn't.

Tony finally released his arms and McGee found, to his surprise, that he could stand on his own again. He marveled at the feeling of the warm patches on his arms returning to room temperature – like the whole world slowly creeping back into place.

Abby came over and hugged him. "Thank you," she said, "you saved the endangered silver fox."


	4. The Visitor

**Chapter 4 – The Visitor**

_The face filled his view, magnified a hundred times. He saw fine lines radiating from the corners of the eyes. The eyebrow hairs, thick and bushy near the center yet sparse at the extremities… He caught himself and refocused on the temple: his target. Was it time? Now? Too early? Too late? No, still time._

_Wind! He could see Gibbs' coat flapping. He needed to estimate his adjustment carefully or Gibbs might be his first ever sniper kill. Suddenly it was Gibbs' head in his sights. He panicked momentarily then calmed himself and carefully shifted back to his original target, estimating the distance between the two men. They were close. Very, very close._

_The look on his target's face told him it was now or never. He exhaled, pressed gently with the ball of his finger and took the shot in the still period between the beats of his own heart. The rifle bucked in his hands and the target's face disappeared from view._

_Then he was in autopsy standing by a covered body. The sheet peeled back to reveal Gibbs; his eyes lifeless_

McGee sat bolt upright in his bed: sweating and panting, adrenaline pulsing through his body. Beside him, his faithful McMutt stared balefully as if to say 'you woke me _again_' and went off to sleep on the floor next to the computer.

"That's what it would be like if you were sharing a bed with that ghost whisperer woman," McGee called after him.

McGee threw himself back on the pillows and waited for his raging heart to calm. He told himself that it was late – or early – and he had to get up soon. He sighed. There was no use pretending he was going to get any sleep tonight. Kicking off the covers, he padded out to his nice, friendly computer to resume a game of Dawn of War marveling at how mindless mass killing did not bother him at all but first person shooters - that was another story. It might have been the fact that the people in this particular game were obviously computer generated and only an inch high or it may have been the fact that he could not see their faces. Whatever it was, he found Dawn of War relaxing.

McMutt, disturbed by all the noise, dragged himself off the floor and went back to reclaim the bed.

McGee cringed as a sharp knock on the door echoed through his apartment. He checked the computer clock – 3am. He should have remembered to turn down the volume for his neighbors.

"Sorry," he called out, stabbing at the volume button. "I'm turning it down."

The knocking repeated and McGee frowned. It was unusual for his neighbors to hang around. Usually they just went back to bed and then grumbled at him in the morning – about 6 am in the morning. Then it hit him: Tony.

McGee took a deep breath to steel himself and pushed off the chair.

"Go home, Tony," he called out as he approached the door. "I'm fine."

A quick check though the spy hole did not reveal the expected hazel green eye, however, but a bright blue one.

"Boss?" he said in amazement, hastily unlatching the chain.

"Thought you'd be up about now," said Gibbs laconically, walking through the door.

"Boss, what are you doing…"

"You look like crap, McGee," Gibbs surmised.

"Well, it's 3am, Boss."

"Come with me," Gibbs invited.

Gibbs led McGee in to the bedroom and indicated he should sit on the edge of the bed. McMutt eyed proceedings wearily and shifted a little to make room.

Once McGee and Gibbs' furry name sake were settled, Gibbs lowered himself into the bedside chair and leaned forward with his forearms resting loosely on the top of his legs. "Talk to me McGee."

McGee's gaze fell to the floor. "I don't think I'm cut out to be a sniper, Boss."

Gibbs almost smiled at the familiar catch phrase. "That's exactly why you are, McGee."

"I keep seeing his face."

"You always will."

"How can that make me a good sniper?"

"A good sniper understands what it is to take a life. Once you start enjoying it, it's time to go."

McGee looked up earnestly. "I didn't think I was going to be able to do it."

"But you did."

"Yeah but I nearly didn't. I nearly let him kill you. I couldn't get the timing right: if I shot too soon then I might have killed him for nothing but if I shot too late, you'd be – well dead."

"It's practice. You didn't second guess yourself, you got the timing right." Gibbs took a deep breath. "There's only so much you can learn at a shooting range, Tim. Looking at a silhouette is one thing, staring down your sight at another human is another thing entirely. Nothing can prepare you."

McGee lowered his head again. "How do you sleep at night, Boss? I don't think I'll ever sleep again."

"I'll get Ducky to give you something to help you sleep."

"I was planning on waking up again."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at the joke. "How do you sleep?" he mused, almost to himself. "You think about all the people you saved with that one gun shot. You're not shooting good guys or even innocent bystanders. It's no worse than shooting someone in the field when they are pointing a gun at you, it's just that this way the odds are slightly more in your favor. You'll never enjoy it but it's a job that needs to be done and it takes a special kind of person to do it. I think you are that kind of person, McGee."

Gibbs paused but McGee did not respond. It was then he noticed McGee's head slowly lowering and the sound of deep breathing starting to fill the room. A smile twitched on Gibbs' lips as he rose to tip the slumbering agent to the bed and raise his legs. When he reached for McGee's discarded covers, however, he found they were underneath McGee's faithful companion.

"Hey: Junior," Gibbs rasped, the tilt of his head suggesting the hound should shift further.

McMutt heaved a resigned, stuttering sigh and moved further across the bed allowing Gibbs to grasp the abandoned quilt and cover McGee.

"You did good out there, today Tim," Gibbs said quietly as he tucked the top edge under McGee's chin. "I'm proud of you."

--------------------------THE END-------------------------


End file.
